


Missing Pieces

by Rainsaber



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual First kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Light and eventual unrequited pining from two oblivious idiots, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Probably unethical alienism, Rape Recovery, Sara literally locks them in a room until John and Laszlo sort out their problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainsaber/pseuds/Rainsaber
Summary: Laszlo suspects John isn’t coping well after they close the child killer case. After a call from John’s Grandmother, Laszlo invites John to stay with him for a week, so he can secretly observe his habits. John is very aware of Laszlo’s motives, but agrees for hope that he can somehow defuse feeling like a barrel of gunpowder ready to explode.
Relationships: Laszlo Kreizler & John Schuyler Moore, Laszlo Kreizler/John Schuyler Moore, Sara Howard & John Schuyler Moore, Sara Howard & Laszlo Kreizler
Comments: 22
Kudos: 86





	1. A change

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, on a personal note: I myself am a survivor of sexual assault, and some things over the years have been triggering for me, so I will do my utmost to be as transparent as possible with the tags and the pre-chapter notes where warnings are appropriate. Tags of course will be updated as the story progresses and needs arise. While this story is much different than what I personally experienced, the recovery journey is what’s most important to me here. Yes, this story does eventually veer into romance territory, but that won’t be at the expense of the important emotional and character work that needs to get done first. Time passes with these two.
> 
> Specific to what was implied happened to John: I have a LOT of feelings on how this was handled in season one. But I won’t get into it at the moment except to just say that if you’re going to imply a rape, follow through and talk about it. Hence my angry response semi-long-form fanfiction that essentially wrote itself.
> 
> CHAPTER ONE WARNINGS: some memory resurgence towards the end of the chapter, but nothing graphic.

“Doctor, you got a visitor,” Stevie said, poking his head into Laszlo’s office at the Institute.

Laszlo Kreizler looked up from his book to see John’s grandmother, Katherine McAllister Moore, standing in the doorway. She was dressed all in black, unnecessarily so, for her husband had died several years ago. But what was most worrisome to Laszlo was the determined look on her face. While she didn’t look distraught or fearful, a kernel of fear still settled unpleasantly in his stomach, because Laszlo couldn’t see how this wasn’t related somehow to John. He closed the ledger and came around from behind the desk to greet her

“Thank you, Stevie,” he said, crossing to the doorway. “Mrs. Moore, please have a seat.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Oh no, this won’t take but a few minutes.”

Laszlo sat across from her. “I would be remiss if I did not ask if this was somehow related to John.”

“You’d be correct. He’s in desperate need of a friend with your professional expertise and I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

“Has something happened,” he asked with a frown.

She sighed. “Several somethings. He’s not himself. I know when my grandson is himself.”

“What have you noticed?”

“Well for one, which I cannot in good conscience complain of, he’s not drinking.”

Laszlo felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Coffee only. And he is also not sleeping. On more than one occasion I have noticed him pacing the sitting room, the dining room, the hallway, nearly all of the first floor from midnight until dawn.”

“What time does he typically turn in?”

“Ten, eleven. He can’t be getting more than an hour’s worth of rest at a time and the circles under his eyes…It’s like there’s paint there!”

“That is worrisome. Is there anything else?”

“He rarely goes out, and when he does he doesn’t eat. We’ve left food for him, reminded him, but… I’m sorry,” she said, breaking off for tears gathering in her eyes.

Despite the ache in Laszlo’s own chest at her words, he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and offered it to her.

She took it and dabbed at her eyes that had just spilled over.

“Take your time,” he said softly.

“I would hope you do not know how it feels to watch someone you love waste away before your eyes. To watch a grandson… He won’t tell me what’s wrong!”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it, I promise you.”

Mrs. Moore took a deep breath and gathered her wits. While she loathed how a telephone scattered them, she took pride in appearing unshakable. “I would be most indebted to you, if you could.”

“If I may, when did you first start to notice this change in him?”

“Ten days ago,” she said, returning Laszlo’s handkerchief to him. “It wasn’t long after he finished his business with you on that horrible matter when he started to act differently. I thought perhaps the shock was finally getting to him, but I believe it is something else.”

“Have his work habits changed?”

“Not much. He said they’ve asked him to write up an article to submit for the Sunday paper soon. They’ve talked about bringing him on full-time for that instead of just illustrations. He seemed… pleased.”

“Just pleased?”

“And disappointed. But I cannot imagine why.”

“Is he home now? Alone?”

“He went out for a walk around one o’clock. He walks for two to three hours now instead of one or two. He should be getting home soon.”

“Would you mind if I accompany you home? Perhaps I can catch him.”

“Not at all,” she said, rising.

It didn’t take long for Stevie to get the horses ready to take them back to the Moore’s residence. Laszlo proposed his idea to Mrs. Moore on the way, and she wholeheartedly agreed that a change of pace might be in John’s best interests. He could only hope that John would agree. They arrived well before John, which Laszlo had hoped for. At the very least if he were to grow angry he would blame Laszlo and not his grandmother. While they waited for him, Mrs. Moore set Stevie up with an afternoon snack in the kitchen while she and Laszlo waited in the little pavilion in the back yard.

Her nerves had been sufficiently calmed by the time John returned home. And instantly Laszlo saw why she was so concerned. John looked like he hadn’t slept much in two weeks. He looked exhausted, worn to the bone, and he seemed almost skittish, hunched in on himself and on edge, for fear that something might happen or someone might try to accost him.

“Oh good, you’re home,” Mrs. Moore greeted with a smile. “Laszlo came by to see you, John.”

“Did he,” John asked, wary and suspicious.

“Indeed, I did,” Laszlo said, playing into the small white lie. “Would you like tea?”

“I would,” was the curt response they got.

While Laszlo poured John a cup, Mrs. Moore finished her own and stood up to approach John. She whispered to him, “Hear him out, John.”

John sighed, teeth clenched in anger. “Gran…”

She fixed him with a strong withering glare, to which John instantly deflated and slumped into the seat opposite Laszlo in defeat.

“I’ll be inside when you boys are finished,” she said.

And that was that. Laszlo passed John his tea, and John practically inhaled it instead of sipping it as was his normal habit.

“Did she put you up to this,” John demanded.

“Had I seen you for myself first, she would not have had to. You look terrible, John.”

“I feel it.”

“If you can’t speak to your grandmother, can you at least speak to me about it?”

Surprisingly, there was a soft snort of derision and a small shake of John’s head when he briefly closed his eyes. “There’s no point,” he eventually said, as if those were the words he could settle for… instead of what he truly wanted to say.

“Do you believe I wouldn’t understand?”

John fixed him with a pointed glare. “I told you as much.”

Laszlo was confused. “When?”

“I really don’t want to talk about this,” John said getting up from his chair and headed toward the house.

Laszlo anticipated this move and jumped out of his seat to block John’s way. “Then will you listen to what I have to say?”

“Seems that’s all I do!”

“John,” Laszlo said, hands held up in a placating manner. “You’re angry and you have every right to be. It wasn’t my intention, nor your grandmother’s, to keep secrets from you—”

“Or plot behind my back?”

“Or that,” Laszlo agreed. “She’s seen you struggling and she came to me because she’s concerned for your welfare. I believe I may have a solution.”

“What kind of solution,” John asked, skeptical.

“Stay with me for a week. A change of surroundings sometimes helps those who feel stagnated.” Or trapped, he thought to himself. “I imagine you still have work for The Times to complete? My house is quiet and you’d essentially have the run of the place yourself.”

John was silent for a while, but he did pause to give it considerable thought. “I couldn’t impose upon you like that.”

“It would be no imposition, whatsoever. The house is large enough for two people to have their own spaces without infringing upon the other unless desired. I do go to the opera on occasion, as you know, but you would be under no obligation to do anything you’ve no desire to.”

“Even staying with you?”

“Even that,” Laszlo admitted. “It was an idea, borne out of no small concern of my own now that I’ve seen you for the first time in nearly two weeks.”

John sighed and bowed his head, as if in shame, though he had no reason to have any.

“And part of that is my own fault, for which I do apologize.”

“You run an institute for children, Laszlo. You’re a busy man.”

“Not so busy as to ignore a friend in need. And I’m sorry that I made you feel as such.”

They both stood there in the back yard for a few more minutes before John sighed loudly and turned his head toward the sky, “Oh, why the hell not?”

“So you’ll come,” Laszlo asked for clarification.

John rubbed at his tired eyes. “Yes, if you truly think it will be of some benefit.”

“Good,” he said, with no small amount of relief coloring his tone. “You’ll want to get your things together, then.”

“Unless Gran’s already done it,” John groused. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

In fact, Mrs. Moore had not taken the liberty of packing John’s things so as not to upset him. For that, Laszlo could tell John was grateful, so he didn’t make any comment on the matter. It didn’t take John long to get his things in order, but it did take a bit longer to get out the door and into the calash with Mrs. Moore holding onto John much longer than John was used to. Laszlo started a conversation with Stevie about his studies so John and Mrs. Moore could have what privacy they could have on their front doorstep.

“I liked that Scottish play, but this romance sap is torture,” Stevie complained. “Should be elective reading, not required.”

“Shakespeare is a great study of the English language,” Laszlo defended.

“People don’t talk like that no more.”

“Unless it’s the right person who might appreciate the effort.”

“I don’t see it,” Stevie said with a shake of his head.

“One day you might,” John said, finally coming up behind Laszlo.

“Ready,” Laszlo asked him.

John nodded and stowed his things. Once they were inside and Stevie had them on their way back to Laszlo’s house, John surprised him by initiating conversation.

“Have you heard from Cyrus,” John asked.

Laszlo nodded. “He seems happy. Mostly concerned for his niece.”

“Understandable.”

“She’s got a sharp intelligence. I think she’d do well at any job she’d put her mind to. She works for the Philadelphia Tribune.”

“Does she,” John asked, surprised and intrigued. “What does she write?”

“I did not have the chance to ask her, but I am certain Cyrus would be familiar with her work. Perhaps we can ask him next we see him.”

“I would like that,” John said with genuine interest. After a few moments of silence John took the bull by the horns again—which did give Laszlo a bit of hope that his friend was still in that shell. “You know I don’t like being an experiment.”

“You wouldn’t be. You’ll have your space and privacy and I will not infringe upon it. It may be my house, but you’re my friend whom I deeply respect.”

“And when it comes to my welfare, as you put it?”

“John…”

“This was a bad idea,” John whispered to himself. He put a hand in his hair and turned his gaze to the floor, warring inside his head what to do, what to say. Laszlo gave him time, but still watched. Eventually John admitted some truth, “I can’t sleep…”

“Nightmares?”

“…yes.”

“Can you tell me what they’re about?”

“I’d rather not,” John said in a very small voice.

“Alright,” Laszlo relented. “I think it may help to talk about them. But I will respect your privacy as long as you desire it.”

“Which means until you grow tired of waiting?”

“It means until you explicitly ask for my help. I won’t go prodding where you don’t want me to.”

John winced and turned his gaze out to the people on the streets to cover for it, but Laszlo saw it all the same. He didn’t know what to make of it so he let them lapse into silence. When they arrived back to Laszlo’s residence he set John up in the same guest room he’d stayed in before, on nights when he was too inebriated to find his way home on his own. Laszlo gave him a decent amount of time to settle in before dragging him into the kitchen to meet his new housemaid, Eloise.

Laszlo had been warned from a former employer (who in his opinion had been too stringent to be logical) that the girl had a tendency to cook for an army instead of a family of four. He’d attributed that to her honest answer of having to cook for and support a large family for herself. And while Laszlo never liked to acknowledge it about himself, generosity typically won out over what was right and wrong. He’d been in desperate need of a maid and a cook…and another presence in the house—not that anyone could ever replace Mary, but Eloise met his most basic of standards and so far she’d fit in well.

John seemed to like her, and even remarked as such as they retired to the study.

“Would you like a drink?”

“A small one,” John allowed, gravitating to the fireplace out of habit.

He returned with two glasses of brandy and handed John the smaller pour.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a small sip, even for him.

“Tell me about the piece you’re working on for The Times…”

For the rest of the night and throughout dinner, Laszlo observed John. There was a tension about him as he spoke and how he moved, similar to what Laszlo observed in the study. John was attempting to act and speak as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Despite the painfully obvious strain and toll it took on John, Laszlo let him. He already had a working list of observations in his head, constantly changing and adding to the overall picture with every gesture, word choice, and avoidance John exhibited. To Laszlo’s surprise, John even turned in early for the night at nine, citing his need for rest—despite the fact they both knew John wouldn’t be sleeping. Laszlo reminded him that he didn’t mind being woken at any hour of the night should John have need of him. And, as Laszlo predicted, John closed himself off and recited the appropriate and well-mannered response that would have been expected of him.

After John retired, Laszlo went to his chalkboard. It took him half an hour to empty his mind of his observations when such a task would have normally taken him half the time or less. This was his dearest friend… more, if Laszlo dared admit it, but now was not the time for those particular sentiments. He stared at the working list a moment longer, then pulled down the covering and turned in for the night himself. He paused outside his bedroom door to listen to the sounds of the house. John’s room wasn’t far from his own, so he doubted if John woke from another nightmare that he wouldn’t hear him, but the coming days and nights would tell.

Laszlo would have to remember to tell Eloise to start making a bigger pot of coffee in the mornings.

**… … … … …**

There was no piece for The Times that John was trying to write. He did attempt to do a write up of Japheth Drury to prove that he could write as well as any of the other reporters they had, but that would have meant he’d have to recount all the details, all their work, all the liberties they took and that were taken against them. It wouldn’t have painted the police in a perfect light by any means, and no one wanted to hear how imperfect the New York Police Department actually was. Even if John had every right to expose a savior for the terrible person he’d actually been… for the harbinger of his nightmares.

A floorboard in the hallway creaked. Laszlo was likely heading to bed. John half-expected him to knock on his door, seeing the light still on, but he didn’t. It was a few minutes before John heard Laszlo’s bedroom door close. It was true, being somewhere different had put his mind somewhat at ease, but made him feel uncomfortable in new ways. He’d spent nights in this very room before, when he was too drunk to see straight. Why they hadn’t put him in here when Stevie and Cyrus carried him in the night after…

John understood why. He needed to be watched. For any consequences of whatever he’d been drugged with. But still. To wake up, so out of sorts, with just a blanket, and the horrid images and feelings that he would never forget… felt like another injustice, however unfair that was. It had been on the tip of his tongue to lash out and silence them all with the truth before he’d quit the room, but he held back for Sara’s benefit. If she hadn’t been there he very well might have (all of it too) just to… what? Prove them wrong? Shock them? Wring out some pity or sympathy or—no.

John, in truth, hadn’t wanted any of those things. He’d recognized his own instability and remedied it by ignoring the whole thing. And he’d done it so admirably that everyone else had too. No one asked questions. No one brought it up. There hadn’t been much time or energy to spare, especially when Joseph had gone missing. Speaking of which, he owed the boy a visit… perhaps when John didn’t look so much like a ghost. That meant, however, that he’d have to sleep. He’d have to rest. He’d have to push past the constant nausea and eat. Take care of himself instead of others taking care of him.

John reluctantly closed his book, set it on the bedside table, and extinguished the light. As he laid down and stared at the ceiling in the dark, he mused on how things might have been different had he actually been honest with Laszlo. Not just about Paresis Hall, but so many other things, things that should have been admitted so long ago. He doubted he’d ever be able to say the words now, and a fiery anger erupted inside of him at the realization. He grabbed the pillow on the opposite side of him and punched it under his arm as he turned over onto his side.

Sleep, damn you, John Moore.

You coward.

_You god damned sodomite—_

John startled awake with a gasp, fingers clenching into the pillow that was still under his arm. Panic fluttered in his chest like a frightened bird in a cage. To calm himself, he buried his nose in the smell of the bedsheets, the pillow, the clean smell of his own nightclothes. He was in Laszlo’s home, a room he could practically have called his own at this point. And it was quiet.

So very quiet.

John was lucky he didn’t wake screaming. Not that it had happened more than a handful of times, but that it happened at all was a constant worry—that he’d shout something incriminating, humiliating, world-ending—it was the bed.

It was the bed.

So, John got up from the bed and grabbed a pillow. He made himself as comfortable as possible in the armchair in the corner of the room. It was a little chilly, but not enough to keep him from the inevitable pull of sleep. A stiff neck in the morning would be worth it if it meant he’d be too tired to dream. He knew the feeling well by now, and he was there, but it was never a guarantee.

_He couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t move—someone was breathing loudly into his ear—_

John stumbled out of the chair, but caught himself on the foot-board of the bed before he made too loud of a noise. All the same he held his breath and tried to listen to see if he’d been heard, at the same time trying to keep his gasping to a minimum. After five minutes, John slumped to the floor, back to the bed, and put his head into his tired hands.

How on earth was he supposed to get through a week of this?

John rubbed at his eyes and dragged himself up to sit at the desk at the window. He lit a candle and pulled out his sketchbook. He had a few blank pages left—needed to get more—needed to remember to get more. What to draw was never really a question when he needed to busy himself. To keep things simple, he tackled the armchair, the upholstery, the shape of the legs and arms, down to the slight wear at the back of the frame from having previously been too close to the chair rail… or some other furniture from a previous placement. He’d sketched until the early hours preceding dawn. At some point he’d laid his head down on his arm, still tinkering with the corner of the fireplace that met the clawed foot of the armchair. And at some point his grip on the pencil had gone slack. His eyes shut and blissful dreamless sleep took him away.


	2. Two words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. This was on my to do list for a while and then I fell into the Nanowrimo hole for a 6-7 book series I just started and hope to either self-publish or get published someday. Enjoy the update and Happy Holidays!

John watched Laszlo sitting in his chair with a notebook propped in his lap. He was scribbling down notes, looking every bit as concentrated on the task and not at all concentrated on John’s incessant slow pacing of the study. John wasn’t a fool. Laszlo’s concentration was very likely entirely focused on his own behavior and reaction to a seemingly calm and quiet environment. He didn’t need a psychology textbook, or Laszlo for that matter, to tell him that the agitated part of him that insisted on the pacing was acting out of a myriad of avoidance, fear, and anger. Those emotions had been such constant companions over the past…however long it had been since… _everything_ that he could no longer distinguish them anymore.

It/He all just felt like some muddled mess.

Too many colors lain on top of one another to discern one from another.

John stopped to look out one of the windows. It was raining, not heavily, but steady enough to thin out the usual abundance of people able to get on with their lives. John crossed his arms, feeling a chill creep through the window.

“Maybe you should try hypnosis,” John suggested, back to Laszlo. “You’ve got enough books on them.”

“I’m of the opinion hypnosis shouldn’t be tried unless another option doesn’t present itself,” Laszlo easily replied. “And especially not if the subject hasn’t had enough rest.”

John valiantly suppressed rolling his eyes, but gave in to the urge to sigh loudly enough for his friend to hear. He turned around then, willing to play along for now. “And what could that have to do with it?”

“It is everything to do with it,” Laszlo mildly chastised, catching John’s challenging gaze. “Say you’d forgotten where you placed your pocket watch the other day and wanted to utilize hypnosis to retrace your steps. Personally speaking I would never use hypnosis for anything so trivial, but if you agreed and I were to guide you through the process, and a particular unpleasant memory arose, I would be hard-pressed to properly combat it or steer you away from it. There would be a significant chance you would focus on the wrong memory, an insignificant one, or a harmful one. Fatigue makes the mind either too malleable or the literal example of a brick wall. Aside from being emotionally, physically, and psychologically retraumatizing, hypnosis would be utterly useless and dangerous to anyone in your state. Think about it, John. I could lead you down a path I couldn’t follow and would have no means to get you back from. Would you be willing to risk that?”

John swallowed hard. “When you put it that way… but they are just memories.”

“They are,” Laszlo patiently agreed. “And the human mind is a powerful tool that man still does not fully comprehend. I trust I don’t need to recount tales of soldiers at the war hospital to you?”

“Indeed not. I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I were to be literally and mentally caged like that.”

Laszlo picked his pen back up and resumed his writing. “I make it a point _not_ to cage people, John.”

“I know that. I wasn’t implying—”

“I know you weren’t. Sometimes… I feel it necessary to remind myself.”

“Then neither should you cage yourself to set others free.”

Laszlo paused and looked up, confused. “Did I imply—?”

John shook his head. “No. But you should endeavor to remind yourself of that as well. I’m never a good patient.”

His friend frowned at him. “Has your mind changed? Do you want to be a patient, John?”

“I’d rather I didn’t have to decide on the matter.”

“I’m rather certain you’d prefer the problem disappeared.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“But to be impassive on the decision implies an indifference with the outcome.”

“While I am not, generally speaking, an indifferent man, I am saying that in this situation… perhaps some part of its outcome is inevitable.”

“And what part is that?”

_The part that will swallow me whole._ “The truth.”

They were both silent for a few moments after that. John was surprised at himself with the admission. And Laszlo kept quiet to let the realization sink in. Normally, John would have lashed out at the alienist by now, but it was a testament to how tired he was that he hadn’t.

“Would you like tea, John?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Laszlo rose from his seat to speak to Eloise, and John was selfishly happy for the brief moment to gather himself in private.

The indifference was new to him, so new that it did frighten him a little. He’d spent so long trying to hide it, trying and failing to act normal, like nothing was wrong. Maybe the indifference itself was inevitable too. But in John’s experience, and likely Laszlo’s as well, indifference in people who suffered traumatic events was never a good thing. In fact, it felt like a live sort of thing.

Slippery.

Dragging his mind to places that weren’t necessarily dark, but just blissfully quiet.

There was no peace in it.

But a good deal of mercy from his worries and failings and inexperience and—

Laszlo’s sudden return jolted John. His hand clenched down, but instead of forming into a fist, his fingers found the arm of the chair opposite Laszlo’s by the fire. John didn’t remember sitting down. Nor did he remember Laszlo or Eloise returning with tea that was sitting on a tray next to them. 

“John?”

John slowly blinked and looked at Laszlo, who wasn’t even trying to hide his concern. “Yes?”

“Are you with me?”

“Where else would I be?” It was a natural response, so natural he’d likely given the exact same to his grandmother before. John didn’t mean for it to slip out, because he certainly didn’t mean it, but there it was.

“Were you somewhere else? Just now?”

“I don’t know where,” John hedged, trying to relax back into the chair and tap into the indifference from before, elusive as it currently felt.

Laszlo observed him for a moment longer, but didn’t challenge him. “Do you still want your tea?”

“Please.”

The tea was good. It even had a hint of peach flavor to it that reminded John of lazy summers spent at home with his family. His mother’s favorite fruit had been peaches. And Laszlo had kept this specific tea set aside for whenever John came by to visit.

“Has that happened to you before?”

“Probably,” John admitted.

“How many times,” Laszlo asked, softly.

“Hard to say.”

“You needn’t be embarrassed, John.”

“You’re _concerned_ ,” John accused.

“As your friend, yes,” Laszlo admitted. “As an alienist—”

John rose to pour himself another cup. “Please don’t.”

“I am not of the belief that dissociation is a sign of a weak mind. In fact, I disagree with Janet’s theory entirely and see it as a defense mechanism. It is a sign that your mind is attempting to put distance between itself and some unresolved trauma.”

Pouring a cup of tea with shaking hands was a newly acquired skill of John’s. He didn’t spill a drop. But he despised the sight of his own ineptitude. He set the pot down with a sigh, not ready to pick up the delicate tea cup yet. “I don’t think I can speak of it Laszlo,” he whispered.

“I’m not asking you to, John. But the better you understand the workings of your own mind, the more equipped you will be to come to your own conclusions, if that’s what you wish.”

John turned around to face him. “You think I’m stuck?”

“I believe, whether willfully or not, you are avoiding reconciling yourself with whatever is troubling you. Avoiding the issue will only continue to harm you. As well as those around you.”

“Those around me have no business knowing it,” he snapped.

“And why is that,” Laszlo pushed.

A heat rose up the back of John’s neck. The instinct to quit the room and retreat to his bedroom, or even brave the now pouring rain, was almost overwhelming. It was only through sheer willpower that John’s shoes stayed firmly planted on the carpet. “Why does anyone refuse to talk about something, Laszlo?—Why don’t you ask yourself that question. I didn’t ask for this, despite what you think, despite what everyone else _thinks_! Do me the smallest courtesy you can of allowing me my own autonomy. If I say I don’t wish to discuss something, that’s me being damned polite about something that I feel I shouldn’t _have to be **polite**_ about!”

John hadn’t meant to shout, or to hurt Laszlo, but the appearance of having done so gave him a sickening satisfaction, similar to their old days. It was a leftover selfish desire of his when Laszlo was so focused on his work that there were times he didn’t sound human. And every time John heard it, another heavy stone seemed to fall into his collection of unresolved feelings, weighing him down until his feet dragged and refused to move unless he got _something_ off his chest. 

“My apologies,” the man said, softly. “I did not mean to provoke you.”

“Let’s not lie to each other,” John hissed.

A fire appeared in Laszlo’s eyes and his challenging gaze caught John in its talons. “But lying to oneself is acceptable?”

“It certainly _would seem_ to be the **lesser** of two evils,” he shouted, throwing his arms in the air.

Laszlo finally rose from his chair, but kept his distance. “You cannot be indifferent and concerned at the same time—!”

“Else I sound like a raving lunatic?—”

“Else I wonder if you have the faintest desire to solve _your own_ problems at all!”

“Well, you’re certainly managing an exemplary job! As always,” he added out of spite, before storming from the study to hide in his bedroom.

He didn’t slam the door.

But its closing was audible.

For the next hour John paced the room, counting the steps from wall to wall, from door to window, desk to door, fireplace to the closet, until the numbers stopped swirling in his head, until his tightly crossed arms fell to his side in exhaustion. He paused to lean against one of the bed posts and a wave of sleep threatened to take him right then and there. He jerked away from the bed and sat heavily in the chair by the desk.

Laszlo was only trying to help.

So had his grandmother.

Though her methods had been so tame that John could easily ignore her, sidestep her, even assuage her own fears for a while.

John had no hope of fooling Laszlo. He never had. That was why, in a moment of weakness, he’d grabbed desperately at the offer of help. But now that he was in it, his resistance rearing its ugly head, he wondered if his body and mind would ever allow him freedom.

He sketched for a while. After another hour or so, when the sky had begun to darken, John heard a knock at his door. “Come in,” he said, no louder than strictly necessary.

Laszlo opened the door part way, but didn’t cross the threshold. He was dressed in his coat. “I have to meet Cyrus in half an hour,” Laszlo said. “I won’t be home for dinner. Please advise Eloise if you’ll be dining out. I’ll be back late in the evening.”

John nodded, but didn’t offer a vocal response.

Laszlo seemed to either accept it, or ignore it altogether, and left.

He sighed, because there was no way he’d stomach anything the rest of the night. He advised Eloise as much before retreating to the study. Going up to his room might have been the safer option, but since she had gone home for the evening (with the added advisement of some bread and cheese in the pantry) the entire house might as well have been his prison. It was an odd thing to stare at the alcohol cabinet and not feel the slightest tug of desire for any of it. Back before any of this business, alcohol had been a surefire medicine for him to ensure he had a full night’s sleep. Not sleeping had magically solved one problem, but traded it for another.

While his attention failed to focus on a single object of the room from earlier in the day, now, it easily zeroed in on the covered chalkboard in the corner by the windows.

Laszlo had moved it against the far bookshelves, unable to be seen by a passerby in the hallway should he be caught working… observing… theorizing.

John marched over to it, pushed it out, and tossed the covering aside so the nearby gas lamp would illuminate his suspicions.

He was right.

Written on the chalkboard were the following words and observations:

_Nightmares & Sleeplessness _

_Dissociation & Loss of appetite_

_Startles easily_

_Paces, Excessive walking, Avoidance_

_Defensive = Normalcy_

_Depression & Internalized anger_

_Tremors_

_Appearance of working = Malaise & unwillingness to complete work_

_Avoids alcohol = avoiding old self-destructive habits = self-preservation_

_ Acknowledgement of inevitability of truth.  _

Seeing it all so plain before his eyes made them water.

He really was a mess.

And Laszlo had no idea why.

It was clear from the notes.

Or the lack of notes specific to…all the private problems he’d been having.

John stared at the chalkboard for a long time. Did he want Laszlo to figure it out? Did he want Laszlo to know? It would be so easy. Just write it there. Spell it out for him. Then, John wouldn’t have to speak about it. He wouldn’t have to speak it back into existence… to start with.

His hands shook at his sides and he hated it, so he did take the chalk in hand.

And he did write something.

But not all he’d hoped he could.

_Paresis Hall._

Just writing those two words was Herculean enough. He felt sick to his stomach afterwards, wanting nothing more than to erase it. Hell, he **should** wipe the whole board clean just to spite Laszlo for his… his what? Intrusion? Violation? Infringement of privacy? It felt like none of those things to John. Not really. And it was in no way comparable to what John now characterized as… an intrusion—a violation—an _infringement_. Upon him.

But there was some small amount of relief at seeing it written there. Even if it was just for his eyes. Part of it felt like loosening the cage of a terrible monster, the cracking of a door to some deep dark unknown pit. But it also felt like a single breath of air, after going so long without. He’d never agreed to being picked apart like this. He’d never agreed to be Laszlo’s patient. But to erase it all, even to erase his addition, would make him a coward.

Laszlo would be getting home soon.

He blew out a careful quiet breath, and put the chalk back in its place. Before he could think any more on it, he threw the covering back over the board. Just like covering up a frightening discovery, it was gone.

For now.

And in its wake the exhaustion came back.

He wiped his hand on the inside of his pocket for any excess chalk and wandered up to his room.

When he sat down on his bed, he realized he felt marginally better.

For giving the monsters of his nightmares a name. Or one of its many names. Because it was a monster with many heads. A hydra with several insidious voices constantly whispering and snapping at him, threatening to swallow him up, maybe even rip him to shreds with its teeth before meeting the all-consuming burning acid of its stomach.

How had Odysseus slain the hydra? Or had he slain it at all? John couldn’t remember.

**… … … … … … …**

“I’ve seen him on his walks,” Cyrus said, refilling Laszlo’s glass as he was finishing up his meal at the bar. “He’s got that look about him. That kind where he’s looking for devils to spring out of shadows. You think it’s the business with the Drury case?”

“That was my initial theory,” Laszlo admitted. “But I am no longer confident that is the root of the matter.”

The larger man folded his forearms on the bar and leaned in, still keeping an eye on the other customers. “Ain’t been that much time since that’s been tied up.”

“I do not believe it is any kind of old trauma from his past, but if it is not from our most recent events I must confess I am at a loss.”

Cyrus leaned closer and lowered his voice. “There’s a lot of things that scare men, but few that terrify them. Getting killed. Getting pain—serious pain. And getting unmanned. And if it’s all three… I’ve seen it unravel the strongest men and women I know and it’s a terrible thing to see, because once you do you can’t unsee it.”

Laszlo took a long drink from his glass. “I believe you’ve reinforced another theory for me, then. One I’ve been most unwilling to consider.”

“Why’s that?”

“No one ever wants to think something so heinous could befall a friend. Much less know what to do about it.”

“He’s luckier than most.”

“How is that?”

Cyrus shrugged before heading back down to the other end of the bar to refill another customer. “He’s got you to help him through it.”

Laszlo smiled tightly, thanked and paid Cyrus, then left for home.

Cyrus has been right, but Laszlo still felt a lingering and nagging feeling of ineptitude. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help John. He was simply afraid his friendship and feelings toward the man would get in the way of what he needed from a clinical perspective. His leaving the house tonight had been a perfect childish example of that. Despite John’s insults and anger rearing their heads this afternoon, he had actually made quite the accomplishment. He had admitted to himself, in all but the exact words, that he would have to confront the truth of his personal demons to achieve the outcome he, thankfully, still seemed to desire most.

The idea of referring John to another alienist was unfathomable.

He simply didn’t trust anyone else to handle John with the kind of care Laszlo knew he needed.

But nor did he want his own selfishness to be either of their undoings.

When he returned home, the lights in the study had been left on. Finding the room absent meant that John must have gone upstairs to his room. The liquor cabinet hadn’t been touched, which wasn’t all that surprising, but still a good sign that he hadn’t regressed to his old habits. The covering of the chalkboard, however, was askew.

Laszlo sighed.

He’d meant to be more careful, but he supposed John would have noticed eventually. It was dark, but he could see all his notes still there. For a moment he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or disappointed that John hadn’t erased all his observations. Just as he was about to cover it back up and turn in for the night, he noticed it. An addition in different handwriting.

Paresis Hall.

_“You don’t understand,” John had shouted at them, quitting the room._

He was right.

He had been right.

The fears that he had tried to keep in the back of his mind flew to the forefront, in what normally would have been triumph at successfully laying the puzzle pieces together, but all he felt was profound failure.

“Oh John…,” he breathed. “It wasn’t indulgence, was it?”

It made so much terrible sense.

He couldn’t believe he almost considered, even for a moment, John’s absurd suggestion to utilize hypnosis. That kind of method would have done so much more harm than good. The very thought of it brought chills across his back.

He would need to confront his friend for the truth.

To be absolutely sure.

Because if it was true… Laszlo would have to consider finding someone else for John.

He didn’t feel properly equipped for this—there was no world in which he could help him—he’d have to know—ensure—the methods were humane and not dismissive or—… he didn’t want to do it. He **wanted** to help John. But the very last thing Laszlo wanted to do was further harm.

He got up from the chair slowly and headed for the stairs. The door to John’s bedroom was cracked, and through the opening he could see the man sitting on the bed, his back turned to him. At first glance he looked like he was bent forward in prayer, with his hands wound into each other and used to prop his head up. But looking at the angles of his shoulders, the world weariness that now was so plain to see, dispelled any illusion that Laszlo’s conclusion had been wrong.

Laszlo took a deep breath, stepped forward, and softly knocked on the door.

John startled, fearful eyes finding Laszlo’s, which he knew showed the depth of his sadness, but it was useless to try and hide it. A moment of silent understanding passed between them both. John knew Laszlo had seen what he’d done. Laszlo knew what John had inferred with just two words.

“May I come in,” Laszlo asked.

A couple of moments passed.

And then, almost too quiet to hear, John said, “Yes.”


End file.
